


Once Around The Block

by Nny



Series: 2019 Valentine's Requests [6]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Clint is bad at mornings, M/M, landlord!clint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-28 21:56:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17795465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nny/pseuds/Nny
Summary: There was still a chill on the morning air but it was shaping up to be a nice day. Clint ducked his head and tucked his nose into the sweater, grinning a little at the smell of it. Good associations. Couldn’t think what they were.





	Once Around The Block

Clint stumbled out of bed at the usual time, the scratch of claws on hardwood as a gentle alarm. There wasn’t any light to creep around the edges of the curtains, not yet, caught just on the cusp of day; the sleepy orange streetlights had given in to the twilit dawn and everything was held static and waiting for the sun.

There was enough of a routine to this, enough of a pattern that he didn’t bother turning a light on. He stumbled over misplaced shoes in the darkness, grabbed sweatpants and a shirt that was a little baggy across his chest. He scratched idly at his stomach, yawning as he stumbled down the stairs.

The coffee maker wasn’t ready to be switched on like it usually was, and Clint cursed his sleepy midnight safe in nonsensical epithets that were still halfway caught up in the sticky threads of dreams. He shoveled grounds into the machine, switched it on and shoved his travel mug directly under the spout. Something tugged vaguely at the back of his mind, something he’d seen or something he’d dreamed, but his brain was still working at less than half speed and his thoughts were duvet heavy and pillow slow.

A hooded sweater was draped over the back of the couch, a pair of jeans hanging off the side of the stairs; he regarded them for a minute and then pulled the sweater over his head. He pulled the hood up and crooked his neck so he could shove his nose into the shoulder of it, not altogether processing while it smelled so good.

Clint’s bow and arrows were tangled in an unforgiveable mess a few feet inside the front door, and he nudged them carefully to one side and made a mental note to separate them later. Made a mental note to find his phone, too, and possibly his charger, and possibly spin a roulette wheel to find which outlet was gonna work.

Another couple minutes was lost while Clint patted idly at his pockets for his keys - they were usually in his sweater, and it took him a minute to find them in the other sweater that was draped over the kitchen counter. He figured he maybe ought to get one of those whistling key rings they were so hot on back in the ‘90s. Whistling, though, that struck a chord. Clint whistled and listened to the clatter and jingle of Lucky’s approach; apparently he hadn’t followed Clint down the stairs like usual.

His sneakers, at least, were by the front door. Clint stepped into them, the laces loose enough that he was trusting to an unfriendly fate that he wouldn’t have to run. He snagged Lucky’s leash from the door handle and shouldered his way through the front door, letting it gently close behind him without locking it, ‘cos there wasn’t much of anything he had for people to steal.

There was still a chill on the morning air but it was shaping up to be a nice day. Clint ducked his head and tucked his nose into the sweater, grinning a little at the smell of it. Good associations. Couldn’t think what they were.

The usual route was dictated by the friends Lucky had made. Mrs Tkacz and her miniature schnauzer came up Quincy just as he was about to close the door, and he grunted a greeting while their dogs got friendly and then helped her inside and up the first flight of stairs with her shopping. By the time he’d jogged downstairs again the sun was peeking along the length of the street and Lucky was eager to get going. Mighta been because of Elvis and his poodle, Anthrax, who had spikes on her collar and a pink bow on her head; she was openly disdainful of Lucky while he panted after her, which Clint identified with on a level that was soul deep.

Some days they’d turn at the end of the street and head for the little park where the bulldogs, Statler and Waldorf, liked to hang out. For some reason Lucky was a little antsy today, though only halfway along their route and already eager to head home, so Clint let him lead the way, sparing a nod for Mr Cox and his cocker as they passed.

He tied Lucky up outside the bodega on the corner, grabbing some toaster pastries and a roll of oreos, pondering shitty corner store coffee 'cos he’d left his travel mug no doubt leaking onto the counter. He had five bucks in his pocket, but it took some fumbling to find it, and when he stepped back out onto the street he basked in the sunlight for a second, reaching back into the pocket of his sweater to find what had tangled around his fingers, there.

For a good thirty seconds, Clint stared down at the cotton-wrapped elastic band, his mouth hanging open. Then he unhooked his dog from the streetlight and raced along the street towards home.

If he hadn’t had Lucky he’d’ve just headed straight up the side of the building, the fire escape a starting point for a route up drainpipes and window ledges. As it was he had to politely hold the door open for Graeme and his Maine Coon - who Lucky kept his distance from these days, 'cos that lesson had been learned - and try not to make his frustration too blindingly obvious as he got stuck behind Mr Bartley’s slow way up the damned stairs.

Clint smoothed his hair before pushing the door open, ushering Lucky inside, and collected up the discarded clothing for convenience’s sake, two pairs of pants, the shirt  _he’d_  been wearing, the hooded sweater that actually belonged to  _him_  -

When he got to his bedroom door, he was finally awake enough to appreciate it. The sight of Bucky Barnes in his bed. Awake enough to know that it hadn’t been one of his dreams, this time; that Bucky was exactly as good a kisser as he’d always suspected; that somehow he’d persuaded Bucky to stay.

He sat himself down on the edge of the bed, ran a careful hand over Bucky’s shoulderblade and melted as Bucky stretched into the pressure, the part of his face not hidden by the pillow wearing a genuine grin.

“Hey,” Clint said, soft as barely waking, and ducked to brush his lips against the skin of Bucky’s neck. “Morning, sweetheart. I’m so glad you’re here.”


End file.
